


Four Gold Bars

by Zauzat



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas POV, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zauzat/pseuds/Zauzat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas is promoted to captain. So what's become of Martin and does Douglas really want to know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Gold Bars

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the invaluable imachar who I have successfully sucked into yet another fandom she didn't know she wanted to be involved with!

"Carolyn, this is meant to be my day off. What possible reason can you have for dragging me to the airfield?"

"Don't you start with me, Douglas. For some of us, that being those of us who actually run the company as against using it as an excuse to lounge around looking smug while nibbling at the cheese tray, the work never ends. And today is not a good day. Not for me, anyway. Presumably it is for you. Congratulations, Captain Richardson. You've finally been promoted."

Douglas stared at her. "Good Lord. What have you done with Martin?"

"He's walked out on us, the ungrateful little swine. Sneaked away from the company like a snivelling rat. After all that I've done for him." She waved a piece of paper at Douglas. "Resigned with no notice. Doubtless taken off for greener pastures at some _proper_ airline without even bothering to say goodbye. We've got eighteen days of work in the next four weeks. We've just secured that contract with Mr Alyakhin, starting on Thursday. Of all the times to leave me without a pilot! If I ever see him again--" Carolyn let her tightly pursed lips imply Martin's likely fate.

"Anyway, _Captain_ , I need a new first officer and I need him yesterday. You're the one with all the connections, who always knows someone who knows someone. How am I going to find a new FO by the day after tomorrow?"

"Well, offering to pay them would be a start," said Douglas laconically.

Carolyn glared at him through narrowed eyes.

"Yes, I know about your little _arrangement_ with Martin. You won't be able to pull that off a second time. You're going to have to offer a salary, even if it's a modest one. MJN has been doing rather better in the last few months. The Russian yacht contract must have you sitting pretty. Surely you can stretch to that? Basically you're going to have to."

"Yes, I am and may Martin rot in hell for this." Carolyn stared angrily at a spreadsheet on her laptop. "I could manage 24k a year but only if business stays this good. And Douglas, you are going to have to run the barest of bare-bones cheap flights. No taking my jet on unauthorised detours to terrorise your ex-wives."

"Oh well, fair enough. The carp was tasty but a little on the pricy side in the end. At least with me at the helm there'll be fewer diversions. But you still aren't going to find a first officer to start work the day after tomorrow. Can't Herc help out? I gather he's being very _helpful_ to you in other sorts of ways." 

Douglas smirked. Carolyn glared.

"Douglas, I am not in the mood for funny pilots! A flu plague has apparently swept through the north-east. Not that anyone would care, except Cal Air is desperately short of pilots still able to stand upright and Herc's working ridiculous hours."

"Ah. And hiring in a relief pilot until you get someone full-time?"

"Those lazy bastards won't get out of bed for less than 500 quid a day. Just this next month alone would end up costing me six months of the new FO's salary. No, I need to get someone full-time ASAP."

Douglas sidled gently into the opportunity he'd been angling for. "Alright. How about 24k a year, plus three month's salary as a signing on bonus if they can start immediately?"

"Two months, Douglas, that's my final offer and don't think I don't know that a good chunk of that will probably go straight into your pocket."

Douglas smiled easily. "I'll go home and dig out my rolodex. I'm sure I can get something sorted for you."

"Go, go! Lord knows I'd love a world devoid of pilots but it won't keep G-ERTI in the air. Find me someone." As she turned away from him, Douglas reached out impulsively and slid Martin's resignation letter off the table. He wasn't sure why he did it, just that it didn't make sense and Douglas had never liked not knowing things.

Once safely out of the portacabin, he lent against his Lexus and read it. It didn't take long.

> _I am resigning with immediate effect. I'm sorry. Martin Crieff_

Douglas pondered as he drove home. It definitely didn't make sense. He simply did not believe that Martin would have moved on to a better piloting job without boasting of his success, preening about his promotion. Even if he hadn't gone on to a substantially better position as a pilot, if he'd just taken a move sideways somewhere, Douglas found it hard to imagine that Martin would have left without saying goodbye, at the very least to Arthur. Martin had liked Arthur. And Douglas had thought that - at least some of the time - Martin had liked him. Under the prissiness and the irritation, under the teasing and occasional tension, he'd thought that they'd been friends. Douglas found himself feeling oddly hurt.

Still, it wasn't his problem. God had chosen yet again to do wonderful things for Douglas Richardson and who was he to turn down his legendary luck. He strode into his house and headed straight for the cupboard in the bedroom. From the back of a drawer he pulled out his old Air England epaulettes, and walked to the window to admire them glinting in the light of the sunshine. Finally! After all these long humiliating years of serving under various captains at MJN, finishing with a man so much younger and so much less experienced that he might as well still be in school, Captain Richardson was finally back where he belonged - captain of the skies, captain of his destiny, captain at MJN Air. 

He walked into the living room where he had a small desk with his computer on it and his files stored underneath. He needed to find a suitable FO. Someone who'd be properly appreciative of the honour of flying with Captain Richardson and easily cowed into doing all those boring administrative chores that Douglas so despised. Someone who'd hand over that two month signing-on bonus to Douglas in return for being offered the job. 

Although Douglas found that it was oddly difficult to imagine sharing G-ERTI's flight deck with a stranger. Martin's face kept intruding in a dozen ways, prissy, grumpy, offended, mischievous, laughing, simply gazing out of the windscreen and looking quietly happy. They'd flown together almost every day for nearly two years. They'd spent many hundreds of hours together in a space smaller than a double bed, talking, teasing, playing games, sharing comfortable silence. After his wives it was one of the longest relationships of Douglas's life. 

Why had Martin done it? The question continued to gnaw irritatingly in the back of his mind. He looked down at the epaulettes he still held in his hand. Why had Martin given that all up? He'd lived to fly. He'd defined his entire identity by that over-braided captain's hat. As Martin might have so eloquently said: why? why? why?

Douglas leaned against the desk and pondered the matter. Something had been going wrong over the last few months. Martin had slowly become more and more subdued. He'd been very tired too, so tired he'd actually fallen asleep on the flight deck twice on recent long-haul flights when Douglas had been in control. It had been months since he'd take a bet for money but recently he wouldn't even bet for the cheese tray. He just ate up every scrap of his half with grim determination, leaving slim pickings indeed for Arthurs. He'd been less interested in their word games, less officious about insisting on his dignity as captain, withdrawing further into himself with each passing day. 

Douglas hadn't realised how attractive Martin could be in his moments of happiness and of confidence until the moments had slowly dried up. He'd meant to say something, but Martin's pride was so prickly and other people's emotional dramas always made Douglas uneasy and it all seemed easier to put it off until next week. Now next week was never going to come. 

Douglas hated not knowing what was going on. He put his captain's epaulettes in one pocket of his jacket and Martin's letter of resignation in the other and headed for the door, grabbing his car keys. He could spare an hour to go over to Martin's house and find out what was going on. After all they'd shared, the very least the man owed him was an explanation and a decent goodbye. 

It didn't take long to drive down to Parkside Terrace. He bounded up the cracking concrete steps, noting the peeling paint and slowly rotting window frames that were so typical of a student rental, and hammered briskly on the door. It was a long wait before a bleary-eyed young man who had presumably decided that sleeping in was preferable to going to morning classes was standing in the doorway. 

"I'm looking for Martin Crieff, that little red-faced pilot who haunts your attic. Have you seen him?"

"Oh him," replied the bleary boy with a vast yawn that sent stale alcohol fumes wafting Douglas's way. "He moved out a few days ago. We've got someone new in already."

"Moved out? Where did he go?" asked Douglas.

The boy gave a disinterested shrug. 

"Do you know how to get hold of him?"

"Alicia, how does someone get hold of that pilot chap?" shouted the boy back into the bedroom he had presumably exited from.

After a moment a tousled blonde wrapped in a bedsheet emerged. "Dunno, but try one of the leaflets. They've got his mobile number on them." She gestured at the table in the hall which Douglas now saw held, along with keys and post and takeaway menus, a stack of advertising leaflets. Above it, pinned crookedly to the wall, next to a note exhorting the residents to do their fair share of the kitchen chores, was a sign written in Martin's writing: _Take one. Take lots. Pass them on to your friends._

He picked one up.

> Icarus Removals.  
>  Available 24/7 every day of the year.  
>  No job too big or too small.  
>  No hours too late.  
>  Call Martin.

He recognised the mobile number.

So Martin hadn't left Fitton to start a glamorous new piloting job in some famous centre of aviation excellence. Somehow Douglas was not surprised. Still, the mystery was solved, there was no need to take it any further. Martin needed money. He'd given up his hobby job as a pilot to focus on earning a full-time wage. It was a shame but these things happened, especially in the current tough economic times. It wasn't as if there was anything Douglas could do about it.

He stared down at the leaflet with its cheap printing and garish colours. He ought to be back at his house finding an FO. If he wanted to fly as captain, he needed to get G-ERTI up in the air, which meant he needed to find that new co-pilot. And yet... The thought that Martin might be in serious trouble was oddly upsetting.

He turned to the couple but they'd disappeared back into the bedroom. "Do you have any idea where Martin might be today?" he called.

There was unintelligible mumbling from their room. "He did mention something about that awful old lady in Addlington Street," shouted the girl at last. "That might've been today."

Douglas let himself out, an Icarus Removals flyer now tucked in next to Martin's resignation letter. Time to go back to his rolodex and then once that was sorted take his MJN jacket to a local tailor to get that fourth stripe put on the sleeves. Still, once he was seated in the car, he found himself looking up Addlington Street on the satnav. It wasn't far away. Maybe he'd just drive by, see if there was anything to see.

He cruised slowly down the long street until he saw the familiar shabby van parked a few doors down and on the other side of the street. He turned the Lexus into a convenient parking space and watched as Martin came staggering out clutching a bookcase that really should have been carried by two people. Health and Safety would have something to say about it if they knew. It was clearly awkward work for him to load it into the van alone, but as soon as it was done, Martin allowed himself just one minute to lean against the van, head tilted back, eyes closed, before he pulled himself upright and trotted back into the house. 

Douglas slid out of his car and walked down the street to the van. He still didn't know _why_. He'd thought Martin had been getting by reasonably well. He knew Martin lived to fly. What had changed? He peered through the windscreen at the shabby interior. The small plastic jumbo hanging from the rearview mirror didn't offer him any answers. Nor did the tatty notebook on the passenger's seat that seemed to contain customer contact details. 

Then his attention was caught by the small collection of things carefully stuffed behind the driver's seat. A camping mattress, a worn sleeping bag and a pillow, Martin's flight bag half open with his toiletry set visible inside, a small duffel with some clothes in it. Martin was sleeping in his van. Douglas cursed his insatiable curiosity. He didn't want to know this. He hated knowing this. He abruptly, desperately, wanted to backpedal a few hours to when all he knew was that he'd finally received his much deserved promotion and Martin must _of course_ have left for a better piloting job. He should have left it all alone. 

"Douglas! What are you doing here?"

He turned to see Martin standing on the steps of the house, a table lamp in each hand. Douglas found himself suddenly fiercely angry. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

"What?"

"This!" Douglas pulled out Martin's resignation letter and slapped it on the bonnet. "Disappearing without a trace. Leaving Carolyn in the lurch. Can't even be bothered to say goodbye. After all these months, don't we deserve better than this?"

Martin looked at him for a long minute and then walked silently past him to put the two lamps into the back of the van. 

"I want an explanation," demanded Douglas as Martin came back past him.

"It's none of your business," snapped Martin coldly. "I don't work for MJN any longer. There's no reason our paths should ever cross again. Unless you need some furniture moving, that is. I doubt we'll be travelling in the same social circles in the future. Us working class oiks aren't exactly the type you public school chaps hang out with."

Douglas grabbed Martin's wrist as the other man tried to step round him. He'd seldom seen Martin out of uniform and had never seen him in a short-sleeved shirt, even when they'd flown to Douz. Now he was dressed in old jeans and a faded t-shirt, the fabric thin and the neckline stretched from too many washings. Douglas was taken aback by how the slender the wrist in his hand was. He looked hard into Martin's face, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the sharp-edged bruise on his cheek which looked as if he'd banged himself on a wardrobe. Martin looked thin and tired and sad.

All the little things that made him at times so lovely to watch were gone: the sparkle in his grey eyes as he thought of a clever contribution to their games, the delicate flush on his cheeks when he was flustered by Douglas's teasing, the clean calm look of concentration when he had control and was confident in his decisions. Douglas found the loss was making him surprisingly angry.

Without thinking, he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "If I help you finish loading, can you take the time out for a cup of coffee and an explanation? You live to fly, Martin. I know you aren't doing this because you want to." 

Martin stared at him in confusion, and then, for a moment, looked as if he was about to cry. He blinked rapidly a few times and visibly pulled himself together. "I can't imagine what you hope to gain, Douglas. Humping furniture has never been your style. But okay, if you really want to."

Douglas followed him back inside and helped to carry out a coffee table, a rocking chair, two armchairs and a desk. By the time they were done, his shirt was stuck to his skin with perspiration, his hair was a dishevelled mess and his arms and back were aching. And Martin had been going to do this alone? He didn't seem to have even broken into a sweat. 

It occurred to Douglas that possibly walking from the door of his Lexus to the steps of G-ERTI and back was not actually much of an exercise plan. And that little bit of extra padding around his waist that he told himself filled out his jacket so well and added to his air of authority, might more accurately be described as a middle-aged paunch. He'd not expected that little Martin would prove to be so much stronger and fitter than he was. 

"How long can you spare?" asked Douglas as he leaned panting against the van.

"Well, we did save some time, I'm not expected at the other place until noon. About an hour?" said Martin.

"Okay, I saw a greasy caff a few blocks back."

They walked silently down the pavement. Once in the cafe Douglas ordered himself scrambled eggs on toast. After all that work he felt he definitely deserved a second breakfast. Martin read longingly through the entire menu, before asking for a cup of tea, the cheapest thing in the house. 

"He'll have a full English breakfast with all the trimmings, and strong coffee," Douglas told the waitress. Once Martin had protested, been overridden, inhaled most of his breakfast and got through two cups of coffee, Douglas began the interrogation. "Now talk. Carolyn's just assumed you'd got a better piloting job but I knew you wouldn't leave us without sharing that news. Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?"

"It's nothing," muttered Martin. "Just time to grow up and earn a living wage, you know? Time to give up on childish hobbies." He offered a tight grimace that was presumably meant to approximate a smile.

"Don't waste my time, Martin. You know I'll get the story out of you. I always do. Something has happened that leaves you needing money in a hurry. What is it?"

Martin twisted his serviette round and round in his fingers. "It's Hannah, my niece, Caitlin's little girl," he finally admitted softly. "You don't know the backstory but Caitlin got herself knocked up while working in a bar one summer in Ibiza and didn't know who the dad was and it was all a horrible family scandal. Anyway a few years later she met a man and he married her and everything was forgiven. Last year Hannah was diagnosed with ALL, that's acute lymphocytic leukaemia. It's not as awful as it sounds, most kids manage lasting remission and obviously the NHS covers the treatment. But that doesn't allow for all the other stuff."

Douglas sighed to himself as he gestured to the waitress for more coffee. Kiddie cancer. Of course. This was Martin they were talking about, after all. It was as if the universe required Douglas's good luck to be balanced out by Martin's bad luck. Up to now this fact had always amused him. For the first time he found himself bitterly resenting it. 

"Hannah's about a third of the way through a two-year intensive chemotherapy regime. Obviously Caitlin had to give up her job to look after her. So money got tight and then the husband said Hannah wasn't his kid and he hadn't signed up for this when he married Caitlin, so he walked out. And it turned out that the money Caitlin had thought he'd been paying into the mortgage he'd been putting on the horses instead. But the house is in her name, so she's on final demand for the mortgage and about to be thrown out. Obviously money had to come from somewhere and it wasn't going to be from MJN. So. There you are." Martin gave a hopeless shrug and started to tear his serviette apart.

"Hang on," said Douglas. "You've got a brother, and isn't your mum still alive? What are they doing to help?"

"Mum's surviving on a tiny pension and her health's not the best anyway. And Simon runs his own business and he says what the recession and all it's one step away from bankruptcy so he can't be expected to chip in."

"Hmm," said Douglas, who had his own opinions about men who let their sister lose her house and their brother sleep in a van but couldn't _chip in_. "I suppose she's a winsome six-year-old with blonde curls who is bearing up under the treatment like a trooper?"

"Actually Hannah's nine, plain, a sulky brat and swears like a trooper. She's rude to her mother and nasty to me, but what can you do? She's a kid. She's scared, she's in pain. Someone needs to be fighting in her corner," declared Martin fiercely.

Douglas wondered who, if anyone, had been fighting in Martin's corner during his childhood.

"Anyway, the time has come to be realistic," continued Martin. "My dad was right, I've wasted my life chasing after my dream of being a pilot. People like me don't get to fly planes. If I'd trained as an electrician like he wanted me to, I'd have a real career. I'd be able to help properly now. I need to do this, Douglas. There really isn't a choice here. Both Caitlin and Hannah deserve better."

They were not the only ones in the Crieff family who deserved better, thought Douglas. "Show me your business plan."

"What?"

"Your Icarus Removals business plan. You must have done some calculations. You know I'm better at this stuff than you are. Maybe I can help, think of a way to increase your income."

Martin hesitated but finally pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans. "I guess any help is good. But I can't see what you can do other than maybe tell your friends about me if they need anything moved."

Douglas unfolded the tatty piece of paper. The plan had been done of the back of a letter of final demand for the sister's mortgage payment. He let his eyes run quickly down the figures, the money saved by moving out of Parkside Terrace, the money earned working at ten quid an hour seven days a week. Even on the most generous projection, Martin would have to work eight paid hours a day, six days a week, to match Carolyn's FO salary. He'd never manage those sort of hours. Yes, he'd save some by taking cash and not paying tax, but there'd be all the costs of the van, plus the need to advertise, plus the exhaustion of the job.

Douglas slipped his hand into his pocket and rubbed his fingers along the raised bars on the epaulettes. If only he'd never started this. If he'd accepted Carolyn's explanation, accepted his luck without question, accepted the loss of his friend, and not indulged his dangerous need to know. Back in his Air England days he'd have been able to simply take what he wanted without worrying about the consequences for his friends. But in the years that had followed his downfall and his sobering up he'd lost that ability. Or he'd found something else. He wasn't sure.

He sighed. Martin was right. There really wasn't a choice here. "Do you have any free time this afternoon?

"I've a gap from three to five."

"Okay, wait here, I need to make a phone call."

Douglas came back a few minutes later. "Right. Ye Olde Tea Shoppe in Fitton High street at four o'clock. I'll see you there."

* * *

Douglas arrived at the tea shop to find Martin walking restlessly back and forth on the pavement. He ordered them both tea and scones, Martin's plate to have extra everything on it.

"Now Martin, you are not to say a word, do you understand? We all know what happens when you negotiate. A bad situation nosedives into disastrous. Let me do the talking."

Martin shrunk back into his corner when he saw Carolyn marched in through the door, immediately spotting Douglas. "Douglas, my favourite aviator. You found me a pilot in six hours! I am--" She came round their table and saw Martin. "What's _he_ doing here? Didn't I say--"

"Carolyn, for once just listen to me," ordered Douglas. "Meet Martin Crieff, your new pilot. He's the perfect choice. He's qualified. He's available immediately. He's spent the last two years flying a decrepit Lockheed McDonnell 3-12 uncannily similar to G-ERTI. And working with a crew remarkably similar to ours. He even likes your daft son."

Carolyn turned on Martin. "How dare you! If this was some power play of yours--"

"Carolyn, I'm doing the talking," interrupted Douglas. "Martin's niece has leukaemia. The step-father has walked out, the mother can't work and is about to lose the house. Martin needs to earn a living wage. He gets the 24k salary that you are offering and he gets the two month signing on bonus for being available immediately."

"Now hang on, that's a bit rich when--"

"That is what he gets. I dropped in to see a lawyer earlier, I have an employment contract right here for both of you to sign. If you try to negotiate him out of one single penny of that, I will resign on the spot and become Icarus Removal's business manager. Try finding yourself two pilots in the next twenty-four hours. Mr Alyakhin won't be impressed. It's leukaemia, Carolyn, the kid is nine years old. Do the right thing."

Carolyn glared at him. "The _right thing_ , Douglas? I'm surprised you have even an passing acquaintance with the concept. So what position exactly am I offering pilot Crieff?" 

Douglas hesitated, fiddling with the epaulettes that were still in his jacket pocket. Captain Richardson of Air England would have bargained the salary for the position without a second thought. But then look where he'd ended up. _It's leukaemia, do the right thing._ "Captain, Carolyn, of course. Just the way we were up to yesterday except Martin gets paid."

He got a long searching look from Carolyn before she pulled the contract towards her and signed angrily under her name. Douglas pushed it across to Martin who scribbled on it as if he couldn't quite comprehend what was going on. "Time for your next removal job, is it not?" said Douglas. As a bewildered Martin hastily got up, Douglas added, "And Martin, I expect to see you at my house once you've finished for the day. It's not negotiable."

To surprised looks from both Martin and Carolyn he stalked out of the tea shop. Let her ladyship pick up the bill. Douglas just wanted to go home. 

* * *

There was a tentative knock on Douglas's door just before eight. He opened it to find Martin still in his work jeans and shirt. The other man had clearly made some attempt to clean up, his face was scrubbed but Douglas could see the faint line of sweat and dirt beneath the collar of his t-shirt.

"Martin, go back to your van and get your personal effects. Yes, I know you're sleeping in the back and I'm not having it. You're staying in my spare room until you can get your life re-organised. I'm afraid it was redecorated by Helena during her chintz phase so the floral theme is a little overwhelming but the bed is good and it's got its own bathroom. Get unpacked, get showered, I'll see you in the kitchen when you're ready."

"Douglas, you can't--"

"I can. I am. Don't even bother trying to argue. You know you always lose."

Douglas stalked back to the kitchen, leaving Martin spluttering on the front step. He knew what he was doing, he knew why he was doing it. But he still couldn't banish the sore edge of disappointment, which carried with it the razor-sharp knowledge that he had no one to blame for this but himself. With a decent salary and the captain's hat, Martin wasn't going to be leaving MJN anytime soon. Which meant the chance of Douglas ever making captain was exactly nil. 

When he'd accepted the position of first officer at MJN Air, it has never even occurred to him that it might be anything more than a temporary inconvenience, soon to be brushed aside as he resumed his place in the captain's seat, regaining the glorious heights of his inconveniently curtailed Air England career. 

That little encounter with Herc Shipwright back when the man first entered the lives of the MJN crew had brought it home to him that getting back into a bigger airline wasn't going to be nearly as easy as he'd once supposed. The industry had changed so much in the last decade, what with the recession, aviation costs soaring, airlines downsizing or going bust, too many new pilots in training. For the first time he realised that he might have to live with being a first officer for the rest of his flying days. 

Martin wandered awkwardly into the kitchen, disrupting his train of thought. His captain was freshly showered, his light auburn hair curling damply at the nape of his neck. His jeans and t-shirt were old and crumpled, but clean. Douglas watched as Martin pulled up a stool on the far side of the breakfast bar that formed the boundary at one end of the open-plan kitchen. Despite his disappointment, he was a little taken aback by how relieved he was to have Martin back and safe, to know that Martin would be there as his co-pilot the next time he flew.

"I've roast chicken, roast potatoes and mixed vegetables all in the oven," he said at last to fill the uncomfortable silence. "They'll be about another thirty minutes. I'm just making a dressing for the salad. There's guacamole on the counter, freshly made by me of course, with tortilla chips, if you need something to nibble while you wait. I don't keep alcohol in the house. Will lime and soda do?"

"Anything will be fine," replied Martin tentatively. "Douglas, are you sure this isn't all too much trouble? You've done so much for me already."

Douglas shrugged with feigned casualness. "I'm happy to have the company. I don't like coming home to an empty house. And as for the food, I love cooking, but cooking for one is just a waste of time and I can never get the quantities right. It's always easier to feed two."

He turned his attention back to the salad dressing while Martin fidgeted uncomfortably on his stool.

"Douglas," he said at last.

"Yes?"

"The job that Carolyn was offering for the 24k, it was for FO, wasn't it? She'd promoted you to captain."

Douglas looked over sharply to where Martin was nervously crumbing a tortilla chip between his fingers. Martin continued in a sudden rush. "It makes sense that way, I know it does. I was a fool when I first took the job. I should have accepted first officer along with a salary. It would have been the responsible thing to do but I was just so desperate. I didn't think anyone would ever make me a captain and it was all I'd ever wanted. When she made the offer, everything else just blurred. But it should've been you. You had the hours, the experience, the seniority at MJN. And I'd've learnt from you. I mean I have anyway, learnt so much, but it all would have made more sense the other way round. So... the thing is...."

Another tortilla chip joined the first one in a sad heap of crumbles. "Tomorrow you should go in as Captain. I'll come back as FO. That's the way it should've been anyway. It's the way the world expects it to be and I think they're right."

Douglas was temporarily rendered speechless. There it was, dangling in front of him one last time, that thing he'd wanted so much for so long. And it wasn't as if Martin was wrong, him being the junior pilot to Martin was ridiculous, it always had been. The switch of positions was eminently justifiable. It wouldn't in any way affect Martin's financial position. After all, that was what this had been all about, getting Martin a living wage so he could help his family. As far at that went, it didn't matter whether he had four stripes on his sleeve or three.

Douglas put down the bowl of dressing and walked round the breakfast bar to lean against the counter, next to where Martin was still methodically destroying tortilla chips. He folded his arms over his chest and stared across the living room, trying to pull together his scattered thoughts.

"Yes, I want to be captain," he said bluntly. "But Martin, the thing you need to understand is that Captain Richardson of Air England was a bit of a bastard. Oh, he thought he was very fine at the time, but in retrospect, I really don't like him very much. Whereas First Officer Richardson of MJN Air is rather battered and worn, and yes, may have a teensie chip on his shoulder about not having four stripes, but in the end I like him a lot better. You're the captain, Martin, and that's what you're going to stay."

He didn't look at Martin, waiting tensely for his response. He really didn't want to have to argue over this, not after the day he'd had.

"You know, your ex-wife was right about one thing," said Martin eventually.

Douglas turned to him in surprise. "She was? What?"

Martin grinned at him shyly. "At least some of the time, you really are terrific."

Douglas found himself smiling. "Oh yes? And the rest of the time?"

"The rest of the time you are an egotistical overbearing pompous twat who wouldn't recognise modesty if it bit you on the backside."

Douglas laughed, feeling his tension begin to drain away. "Oh well, at least you have a more realistic perspective on the matter than she had."

"Honestly, I should hand over my entire life to you to organise. You do it so much better than I do. D'you know, it never even occurred to me to try and negotiate something with Carolyn. I'd asked before, she'd said no before. I just gave up."

"Oh Martin! You should've come to me. You just had to wait for a busy month, like this one, and then give her an ultimatum. She's got pound signs sparkling in her eyes, what with the new contract from our Russian yachting friend. She's not going to risk that pot of gold."

Martin shrugged. "Like I said, I should just put you in charge."

"Frankly I agree with you. And if I was in charge, now that you're getting paid, the first thing I'd sort out is your woeful lack of a love life." Douglas hesitated. He'd had a suspicion about Martin that had been slowly growing over the many months of their acquaintance, a suspicion increased every time Martin tried to chat up a woman, seeming more intimidated that genuinely interested, and further increased by every lonely month when Martin still hadn't had a whisper of a hint of a personal life.

"Martin, are you gay?"

"What? No! No, of course not, why would you think... what gave it... No, no, no, women, I like--"

"Martin, stop it." Douglas briefly put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "This is the twenty-first century, it's okay to be gay. It's boringly normal. Now it's all fighting for the right to be unhappily married for decades and squabble over whose turn it is to take out the rubbish. Why on earth do you think you need to hide it?"

Martin's shoulders slumped in defeat. "That's not what my dad thought. When he was drunk, he had quite the speech about how the rise of poofters in Britain was the reason for the fall of the empire. I was already going against his wishes by trying to become a pilot. I couldn't fight him on two fronts. I decided to just focus on the thing that seemed to matter, getting my qualifications."

"Fair enough," Douglas said gently. "Families can be hard going. But Martin, to be blunt, your dad's dead. Now what's your problem?"

Martin wriggled uncomfortably on his seat. "Well, my brother and sister kind of have the same view as my dad. And I guess it got to be a habit. And cockpits are really small, you know? I wouldn't want to risk a co-pilot feeling uncomfortable with me, well, more uncomfortable than I probably make them anyway. And it's not as if I meet any nice boys any more than I meet any nice girls."

"Right, taking that from the top, that is a long list of total codswallop that you seem to have talked yourself into believing. Honestly, Martin!" Douglas skipped the family, although he was quite clear in his own head that he was going to have some things to say to a sister who was prepared to take all her brother's money to help her child, while forcing him to stay in the closet. 

"It's a habit you need to get over right the hell now. I'm insulted that you think I'd even remotely care which team you choose to bat for. I'm quite happy to tease you ruthlessly about boys just as much as I am about girls, utterly equal-opportunity teasing, that's me. And as for not meeting anyone... Everything I've ever said to you still applies. You're a young, single, not unattractive airline captain. And at least half of all stewards are as gay as the day is long and utter sluts for a captain's uniform. I should know. To be blunt, my thousand stewardesses actually included a fair number of willing stewards."

"What? You're... um... you know... that thing..." 

"I think the word you're hunting for so ineptly is bi-sexual. But it might be more honest to say that I'm always happy to reward admiration, wherever it may come from. I see no reason to artificially limit my field of operation."

He looked intently at Martin who was staring desperately down at the bowl of guacamole as if it was about the reveal the meaning of life. "You're not nobody anymore Martin. You're not your dad's kid, you're not a man with a van. You are an airline pilot, Captain 24k-a-year Crieff, and will you please start living up to the irresistible sexual magnetism of that uniform!"

Martin continued to be fixated by the guacamole. "I'm not really the one-night-stand type," he mumbled at last. "I don't think I'm ever going to make the 'hostie in every port' thing work for me."

Douglas sighed. "Yes, alright, I guess I'm not that surprised. You must have some idea who you like though." He hesitated. The idea of helping a hetrosexual Martin find a nice girl had been amusing. The idea of finding a homosexual Martin some other chap was making him distinctly uneasy. Somebody needed to be looking after the man and given the challenges of Martin's bad luck and general Martin-ness, Douglas had his doubts about how many people could be trusted with the job. "Is there _anyone_ you fancy?"

Martin started stubbornly at the counter, his hands returning to their nervous habit of crumbling tortilla chips while a hot blush slowly spread out from his cheeks, rising to the tips of his ears and creeping up into his hairline. Looking down at him Douglas was struck by how smooth his pale skin was and how sweetly it flushed pink, how starkly his high cheekbones stood out. His hair was still damp and trying to curl around his ears and along his nape. 

Martin was really rather attractive, when you got in close and he wasn't ruining the affect by babbling. It was a subtle beauty, one that really required a connoisseur to appreciate it. Douglas had always considered himself something of a connoisseur and he was beginning to harbour a very interesting suspicion indeed. He moved closer to Martin and laid a hand on his arm, stilling his fidgeting. "This person you fancy, is it anyone I know?"

There was a long pause but Douglas had had plenty of practise in waiting Martin out when there was a piece of information he was particularly interested in extracting. He gently rubbed his thumb along Martin's lean forearm. He knew the young man would eventually blurt something into the uncomfortable silence. 

"I might've had a bit of a crush on you since day two."

"Day two?" queried Douglas, letting a hint of teasing into his voice to ground Martin in the familiar, but carefully keeping it gentle. "What was wrong with day one?"

"You were utterly horrible to me," said Martin bluntly. 

"Well, that is true but in my defence, it was all a bit of a shock. There I was, wondering whether I should try flirting with the new steward, although I thought he might be a little young for me. And then he turned out to be my _captain_. So what happened on day two?"

"I discovered how well you fly."

"Oh Martin! It really is all about aviation with you, isn't it?"

"It's not my fault," protested Martin. "You were bringing G-ERTI down into Nice onto that awkward one-nine runway, fighting a nasty little crosswind and you were singing that opera thing, you know, the Toreador song, under your breath, and you landed her like a butterfly touching down on a rose petal and what was I supposed to do?"

"Fair enough. I can absolutely understand crushing on me. But two years of it shows a level of tenacity that really does deserve a reward. Come on, up you get." Douglas gently pulled Martin off his stool and turned him round so he was leaning back against the breakfast bar. Then he cupped Martin's face in both his hands and watched as that soft mouth opened in surprise. He heard Martin draw in a shaky breath, saw a pink tongue flicker out briefly. Carefully, he brushed his mouth across Martin's barely parted lips.

He'd speculated about sex with Martin before, not with any serious intent but in the way that one does about all one's acquaintances sooner or later, particularly during long night flights to Asia. Admittedly he'd kept his speculations about Carolyn and Arthur pretty short. Herc had got a little more attention, but the man was just too smug to hold Douglas's interest for long. But he had spent a fair bit of time on Martin, wondering if he'd be a timid semi-virgin, or secretly voracious or just fairly ordinary. He'd eventually decided it was likely to be awkward and inhibited and the way this kiss started out he rather thought he'd got it right.

Martin seemed frozen by surprise, his hands fluttering nervously without ever quite touching Douglas, his lips stiff and reticent. But then Martin reached out, grabbed Douglas's shirt by the collar, and deepened the kiss into a passionate clinch edged with desperation, plundering Douglas's mouth as if he was trying to climb inside. It occurred to Douglas that this was the way Martin tended to grab at things he really wanted but thought he wouldn't get a second chance at.

Douglas deliberately gentled the kiss, pulling back and placing teasing nips on Martin's lower lip and soft kisses on the edge of his mouth while stroking soothingly down the other man's back. He whispered against Martin's mouth, "It's okay, I'm not going anywhere. This isn't a race to the finish."

"But I don't have any of the standard specs," wailed Martin. "Why would you stick around?"

"The standard specs? What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know. When you told me about Helena. Clever, funny, kind, beautiful. And I'm not a woman."

"God, I'm amazed you remember that. You are more of all four of those things than you realise, I promise you. Although not a woman." He pressed up against Martin, crowding him against the breakfast bar, letting his thigh push in between Martin's legs and rub against his crotch. "Definitely not a woman. Honestly Martin, you can recall a list about my ex-wife from 18 months ago but you can't remember our bisexual conversation from five minutes ago?" 

"Yes, but I can do the maths," protested Martin. "Women get to be wives. Men get to be one-night-stands on layovers. And.. and.. I don't..."

"I'm not asking you for just one night, Martin. I know you better than that."

"But why are you asking me at all? Why would you? I mean... you're you and I'm me and... Why?"

"Three excellent questions." Douglas thought for a moment. "Do you know the first time I looked at you and thought _yes! I'd like to take that boy to bed this very minute_?"

Martin gaped at him. "I would have said never."

"It was the day you landed at St Petersburg on one engine. All the way down I was expecting to have to seize control from you and you held it together and ran through all the emergency procedures, brought her down perfectly, shut her down and then you turned to me and you smiled. You weren't panicked, you weren't cocky, you just looked at me and grinned. And in that moment all I wanted to do was pull you out of your chair, bend you over the control panel and bugger the hell out of you."

"Oh!" Martin was blushing furiously. "So really, it's all about aviation for you too."

Douglas began to laugh. "Yes, _touché_. We are both pilots, after all."

Martin pushed himself away from the breakfast bar, swaying forward to rest against Douglas's body, arms wrapped round his waist. "You know, you really are terrific."

"You're doing okay yourself," murmured Douglas, brushing his lips against Martin's temple as he let the clean sweet smell of the other man fill his senses. "Captain 24k-a-year Crieff who happens to be having a scandalous affair with his first officer."

"A scandalous affair? We've had one kiss! Honestly Douglas, with your reputation, I've have expected a bit more from an affair with you."

"Oh, you're going to be demanding, are you? Patience, my young captain. We've no need to rush. The timer on the oven will go at any moment. We are going to enjoy a fabulous dinner - because naturally anything I cook is fabulous - and then we're going to curl up on the sofa because inevitably you're going to be a cuddler and then we're going to explore exactly how scandalous we can get."

Martin nuzzled his face against Douglas's neck, teasing at the soft skin with small bites and then soothing licks, while his hands slid down over the back of Douglas's pants and clenched possessively onto his butt. It was beginning to occur to Douglas that neither awkward nor inhibited seemed to apply to Martin in this situation. He was looking forward to unwrapping his captain and finding out what exactly he would be like in bed with ever-increasing enthusiasm. 

Martin pulled back to look up into Douglas's face. "This is the best day of my life."

"Better than the day you finally got your CPL?"

"Yes, because now I'm a real professional. I can finally earn a living doing what I love, and I can help my family, plus I get to do... you know..." He pressed up close against Douglas again, pushing his hand in under Douglas's shirt to run it up his back. "...stuff. With you."

"Martin, it's going to be the first of many good days, trust me."

As Douglas captured Martin's lips for another searing kiss, he mentally waved goodbye to that fourth gold bar on his shoulder, giving up on any thoughts he had still harboured about trying to change airlines. Really, it was more than a fair trade for having Martin plastered on his front instead.

\- THE END -


End file.
